Cam’s strong hands rub at the muscles across my shoulders, easing the tension away in the dim light of our walk-in closet.
“That feels nice,” I whisper.
He pushes his fingers up my neck, into my hairline, sending shivers down my spine as I release a soft moan. He kisses my neck and starts to unzip my dress but stops. His hot breath remains on my neck, closing in on my ear.
“Are you sure you won’t come?” he asks.
My shoulders rise. He’s trying to butter me up to go to his father’s retirement party.
“I told you.” I turn to him and take his hands in mine. “After today, I don’t want to go anywhere. I just need to be alone.”
And I don’t want to be around law enforcement. Ever since that night, five years ago, their presence triggers fear in me.
“My family would love to see you there.” He stares into my eyes, evaluating me as he does a puzzle, trying to create the piece needed to solve it, to make the image he wants to see. “Callie was asking about you the other day, and you know my dad would be so happy you came. I don’t think you should be alone tonight, Chels.”
He’s only trying to help. Just a little while longer and I’ll be on my own. Patience.
“I wish I could make you feel better. If I knew how, I’d do it for you right now. Whatever it took.” His eyes fall away from me as he takes a few steps back.
“I wish it were that simple.” I reach behind me to pull the zipper, but I can’t reach it.
He returns to the floor-length mirror, straightens his tie, and clears his throat. “I don’t know what time I’ll be home.”
“That’s fine,” I say, a little too quickly.
He raises his brow and shoots me a look. “If you need me, just call. I’ll have it on vibrate.”
“Thanks. Can you?” I point to my zipper.
He pulls it down gently. I hold the front of it against my chest as it falls away from my back. I take a deep breath and glance at the pajamas I’m eager to pull on. I’ll dig a pint of ice cream out of the freezer, watch reality TV, and fall asleep on the couch so I don’t have to be alone in our bed with my thoughts.
Cam will come home, collect me, bring me to our room, and cuddle with me until I fall asleep thinking of him—or nothing at all. Anything but that night, and what I have to do next.
“Thank you.” I turn around and he’s already gone.
After pulling on my pink satin shorts and cami, I twist my hair into a bun and walk downstairs, stopping in the foyer. I take the white envelope out of my purse, bringing it to the dark kitchen, lit only by the moon through the windows. I lean against the marble counter and slip the single sheet of paper from the envelope.
I tore the top of it off when I’d retrieved it from the mailbox yesterday after work, betting it was junk mail. When I unfolded the paper for the first time, my blood ran cold. It does again now.
They paid for what they did. Now it’s your turn.
Tell the truth, Chelsea, or more will pay.
Tell the police the truth about what you all did that night or I will, and you’ll lose what’s left of your miserable life.
Shivers run up my spine as I absorb the words. A weight builds deep inside me—a heavy burden. Tell the truth about that night.
You have 48 hours to confess.
I brace myself against the counter, reading the sentences over and over. There’s no time on the paper, but I know my deadline is tomorrow night. I have until tomorrow night to do what I should have done five years ago.
I tuck the paper back in the envelope. At first, I thought the sender to be one of Steven’s defenders—those who believe he was innocent. Perhaps it was someone from an online forum, or a subreddit, where cracking cold cases is attempted.
As one of their prime suspects, they know more about me than I’ll ever be comfortable with. They were dissatisfied with the interview transcripts, and the detectives’ conclusions. Just like Jordan. They question the timeline, even though everything I said matches with the medical examiner’s report. They wonder where I was for a half hour to an hour while my friends were slaughtered. They try to contact me, less and less now, but it still happens. They still think I know something that no one else does.
They’re right.
I set the letter in front of Cam’s office computer. I pull up a folder with pictures from my college days. The only picture I have of our group is a selfie taken on the beach by a bonfire from the first night we all got together. It was November; we were huddled together, bracing against the Lake Ontario chill.
I thought the letter to be an empty threat, but I couldn’t stop wondering. What if it wasn’t? If someone knows what we did that night, why haven’t they gone to the police themselves? Why are they forcing me to confess?
What they wrote—it’s not specific, but it’s true.
What you all did.
I called a lawyer for legal advice. I told them what I was thinking about doing. I wanted to know what the consequences would be. They confirmed my worst fears, but assured me they’d fight to get me a better outcome, and limit the time I’d serve.
Clutching the letter, I glance at the bar cart by the window and my breathing slows. I stare at the liquor bottles on the cart. Whatever demons my dad numbed away while he drank multiplied because he drank. I won’t do it. I won’t bury myself any deeper than I already am. I’m barely above ground. I’m barely breathing.
It doesn’t matter who knows what. I know what I have to do.
I stare into the computer screen, scanning my old friend’s faces.
“What we did,” I whisper, my chin quivering as tears spill down my cheeks. “I wish I could take it back. I think—I think I’m finally going to do the right thing. I’m going to do what we should have done that night, as soon as we knew he was dead. I’m sorry.”
Their faces stare at me, smiling, guiltless, and glowing by the light of the fire.
Even when I had them here, we couldn’t agree on what should be done. Their opinions wouldn’t help. Alcohol won’t. Food never does. I have no one to talk to—no one who’ll understand.
This letter. It’s because of the anniversary. It has to be.
I learned how to push what we did way down deep inside in order to survive. I’ve done what I had to do to be free, but as I reread the letter over and over, one word stuck out more than any other.
Miserable.
My miserable life.
They’re right.
I close the picture.
Nothing I’ve built is real.
I stand and shuffle out of the room, crumpling the note in my fist as I crawl into bed.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll start my last day as a free woman. Then, I’ll trade it for another form of freedom; that which frees me from the burden of lies, which have slowly been killing me for half a decade. I’ll do this on my terms.
I open the drawer of my nightstand and shove the balled-up letter inside. I take a lightheaded deep breath and lay back against the stack of pillows on my side of the bed.
If the blackmailer had anything to go off of, they wouldn’t be threatening me. They’d have the power and control. They might think I’m scared to lose what I have, but in truth, I’m relieved. I wasn’t supposed to carry this alone, and in some ways, it was easier. I close my eyes and press my cheek to the cool pillow.
But no matter how much I appeared to move on from that day, I’ve never been happy. Not really. It’s been too long since I’ve known peace and I might never feel it again, but that’s the price I have to pay. That’s what my freedom costs.
As I drift into sleep, I resolve the remaining stress the way I always do.
I’m not a bad person. I did a bad thing. I’m not a bad person. I did a bad thing.